


tsukiakari no dearest

by edibleflowers



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: First Time, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21768907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: Ai has an unexpected proposal for Camus.
Relationships: Camus/Mikaze Ai
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	tsukiakari no dearest

**Author's Note:**

> first of all yes I know I cheaped out on the title but come on, they sing it together, it fits, shut up
> 
> this fic has been in progress for at least a year because I had the idea and wrote the first section and then forgot how to write, so uh yeah. I know it's not the next part of the Werewolves series and I apologize for that, but working on this has helped with my writerbrain to some extent, so. yay? anyway, I mostly just wanted to write smut with these two and hopefully succeeded.
> 
> uh... spoilers for the second season of utapri and for Ai's true nature.

"I want to have intercourse with you," Ai Mikaze says, and Camus nearly spits out his tea.

"You _what_?!" Camus is very rarely taken off-guard. Ai is privately pleased that he's managed to render his groupmate momentarily speechless.

"Did you not hear me the first time?" he asks, all innocence. "I said that I want to--"

"I heard you." Camus wipes his mouth with a cloth handkerchief. His pale eyes have gone narrow, the pupils contracted to mere dots. Ai calculates a thirty percent probability that Camus believes his proposal to be a joke, perhaps a prank of some kind. "What is this about?" Camus asks, reaching for the teapot and pouring a fresh cup for himself.

Ai slides neatly into the chair opposite him. They're at the Shining Agency resort, where Quartet Night is on retreat to work on their new album. At the moment, Haruka Nanami is off with the other two members of their group as they work on a duet song for Reiji Kotobuki and Ranmaru Kurosaki to sing together. Ai and Camus have a duet planned as well, but that's scheduled to be dealt with later. Right now, the two of them have some rare free time on their hands.

That free time is one of the reasons Ai decided to approach Camus with this request. He reasoned that their working relationship, somewhat distant, could use some improvement. Also, he's been wondering if all of his equipment functions properly. Of the other three, Ai reasoned that Camus would be the most likely to fulfill his request. He could have approached Syo Kurusu or Natsuki Shinomiya of STARISH, he supposes: he's spent plenty of time with both of them for promotional work for the Shining Agency, but neither of them are here at the moment. As well, he recently informed the rest of Quartet Night about his status as an artificial being, so he knows that Camus can't be shocked by that revelation.

In addition to all of his reasoning, Ai admits that he also finds Camus quite aesthetically pleasing. Reiji and Ranmaru are also objectively handsome as well, but there's something about Camus's cool eyes and quiet nature that appeal to Ai. This is another one of those human emotions that Ai has yet to understand.

"Is it not a reasonable request?" Ai asks. "I'm still learning some protocols. Of course, I know that we as idols are forbidden from romantic relationships, but I always understood that that applied to public relationships with members of the opposite sex, nonbinary genders notwithstanding--"

"Ai," Camus says, and Ai goes silent. Camus is still a little pale, though Camus is always a little on the pale side, being from Permafrost as he is. As he sips at his new cup of tea, the man appears to regain some measure of calm. He takes a deep breath, looking out over the stone railing at the sea, and then returns his gaze to Ai.

"It is not," he says slowly, "an unreasonable request. It is, however, a somewhat confusing one. You've never shown any interest in relations of that sort with anyone -- male, female or otherwise. This is all rather out of the blue." 

"I suppose it is." Ai folds his hands in his lap. "However, it has also weighed on my mind lately that I am not fully aware of all my functions. I told you of the incidents on set of the film with Shinomiya and Kurusu." Though Ai's memory is perfect as befitting something artificially created, those memories still stand out: how he malfunctioned due to rain for most of the shoot and was eventually forced to admit his true nature to Natsuki, Syo, and Haruka. The lessons he'd learned about friendship continue to weigh heavy on his mind.

Camus nods his head gracefully in acknowledgement of that. Ai had related the story to preface his announcement to the others of his true nature.

"As you know," Ai continues, "I can eat and drink like any human being. My system processes that input differently from humans, but in all other outward respects, I am physically identical to an average human male."

"And you wish to ascertain whether you function correctly?" Camus says. "Couldn't you have..." He pauses, delicately seeking the right phrasing. "Tested that... on your own?"

To his surprise, Ai finds warmth rising to his face. He knows this sensation and the accompanying feeling that goes with it: this is embarrassment. But why should he be embarrassed? Perhaps that's not the correct word for how he feels after all.

"I... tried," he admits, and he's the one looking away now, not quite able to meet Camus's level gaze. He swallows briefly. "It was not. Not successful."

A sound distracts him: the clink of china on the table. When he looks forward again, Camus is reaching back from where he's set a second cup on a saucer before Ai. The tea is the perfect temperature: hot, but not enough to burn the mouth, with just the right amount of milk and sugar to sweeten it without detracting from the taste. Grateful, Ai takes the cup, holding it in both hands.

"So you thought you would see if a partner would help," Camus says. 

Ai nods, sips at his cup. As anticipated, Camus has flavored it to perfection. "If you're not interested--"

Camus shakes his head before Ai can continue. "I never said that." His mouth curves, ever so slightly. The expression changes his face. Ai can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Camus genuinely smile, when it wasn't for a photoshoot, when it wasn't an act. It softens his pale eyes, gentles his mouth in some indefinable fashion.

"Finish your tea," Camus says, and, obedient, Ai does.

* * *

Ai has never had cause to wonder if Camus had any prior sexual experience. He'd never considered it of any of those employed by the Shining Agency, for that matter, despite seeing the connections each of them had made with their songwriter. Ai doesn't care to speculate, even though Syo and Natsuki appear to be rather fond of each other and Ren and Masato have a friendship that seems closer than brotherhood at times.

Now, though, as he climbs the steps behind Camus, he ponders whether he should have inquired about such matters prior to propositioning the man. Camus is charming when he chooses to be, even if most of those times are in the public eye; women flutter and swoon around him as much as they do around the rest of Quartet Night. If Camus had chosen to enter into a relationship prior to joining the group--

He's brought up short at the top of the stairs. Camus opens the door to his bedroom, turning to Ai. "Go on in," he says.

Ai obeys, stepping out of the light house shoes as he does and leaving them neatly by the door. Camus's room is like his own in both size and layout; only a few personal touches distinguish the room from his own: a laptop on the desk, a couple of pictures in frames by it, Camus's suitcase in a corner. Ai stops in the middle of the room, by the bed, and turns to watch as Camus enters the room, then closes and locks the door behind them.

"Stay there," Camus says. "Don't move until I tell you."

Though nothing has changed, Ai feels himself tremble just a little. How curious, this anticipation. Camus approaches him, leisurely, each step steady. 

"I'm going to undress you now," Camus tells him.

Ai swallows hard, but makes no other movement. Camus, correctly interpreting his stillness as acquiescence, makes a slow circle around him, stops behind him. He can feel the warmth of Camus's body at his back. Camus's hands are there without warning, reaching for the lapels of the light jacket Ai wears; he tugs, gentle, and Ai lifts his arms enough for the garment to easily slide off. A rustling sound as Camus folds the jacket and lays it over the back of the nearby chair: then Camus comes around to Ai's front. 

Ai's reminded of the butler persona Camus assumes for his role in the public eye as Camus begins to neatly undo every button of Ai's shirt. When he reaches the waist of Ai's jeans, Camus neatly tugs out the shirt-tails and finishes the job. Camus's hands find Ai's wrists, then, his touch almost delicate as he undoes each cuff. Ai finds himself focusing on each glancing touch of skin, Camus's fingertips brushing over the backs of his hands, stroking the soft skin of his inner wrists. 

"Shirt," Camus murmurs, and Ai shucks himself out of the button-down. Beneath it, he wears a simple white undershirt, which Camus strips from him with brisk efficiency. The garments join Ai's jacket on the chair, and then Camus pauses, his fingers just touching the button of Ai's jeans.

"You're so perfectly made," Camus says. 

A compliment was not what Ai was expecting, especially from this man. He takes in an unnecessary breath and lifts his eyes to meet Camus's. "As I was designed to be," he replies.

Could that be the slightest hint of a smile edging the corner of Camus's mouth? "When someone gives you a compliment, Ai, you say 'thank you'."

"Thank you," Ai says. It feels like it's about so much more than etiquette right now. Ai knows he's attractive because that's part of his purpose of being. He knows he's beautiful because that's what fans tell him, what industry people tell him, what everyone he meets tells him. Camus's esteem is something apart from all of that.

He'll need to think on that later. At this moment, he wants to concentrate on the here and now: on the way Camus touches him, the sensations of those fingers trailing over his skin, warmth blazing in their wake. Camus undoes his jeans with a swift twist of the wrist, slides the zipper open, and tugs the trousers and the briefs beneath down in one swift motion.

Ai has been nude for tune-ups, for the technicians who created and service his mechanical form. He's never felt naked before. Camus makes a slow path around him, his pace reminding Ai of some big cat stalking its prey. He comes to stand before Ai at last, briefly stilling, eyes traversing down and then up again. Ai's breath hitches, his own gaze going up to meet Camus's stern, distant look.

"Do I meet with your approval?" he asks.

Camus's eyes flicker. "That is a ridiculous question. Get on the bed."

Ai finds himself smiling a little as he does as told. He peels back the covers on the assumption that whatever happens, Camus would prefer not to have a messy bedspread, and then lays himself down in the center of the wide mattress. While he does, Camus begins to undress. Ai couldn't restrain himself from watching this even if he was ordered to.

Of course, they both have similar bodies in terms of anatomy and function. Camus is taller, slightly narrower in the shoulders and hips; lean muscle shifts easily under pale skin as he removes his jacket, his tie, the button-down shirt. He seems to be utterly unconcerned with Ai's presence; in fact, he hangs up the jacket in the closet, folds the tie neatly to place it on the rack inside the closet door, adds the shirt to a laundry hamper. Ai feels his skin begin to shiver a little. Though the cold doesn't affect him, that sense of anticipation only continues to grow ever more as Camus, seemingly deliberately, takes his sweet time undressing.

Camus undoes his belt, slips off his trousers, strips off socks, all without thought -- as if Ai isn't even there. Ai's breath catches when Camus's fingers pause at the waistband of his silky boxers, the last remaining article of clothing on his person; then, seemingly fully aware of Ai's gaze on him, Camus drops his hands instead and turns toward Ai.

"I have to admit," he says as he approaches the bed and sits, "I had wondered about this after you told us. Whether you were functional in every way, or if this body was designed only toward its intended purpose." His fingers touch Ai's shoulder, the light touch warm on Ai's skin. Fingertips trail down Ai's arm; Ai shivers at the sensation that races along him in their wake. He hadn't thought of himself as being particularly sensitive -- at least in this way.

Camus's smile reappears, this time faint, as if he's pleased with the results so far. "I want you to tell me how and what you're feeling," he says. "Whether something is good or bad."

"I will," Ai says. He's been examined by technicians who took the same clinical tone with him, but never did he feel so exposed with them. Camus's touch skims back up along his arm, across his chest, over to one of his nipples. At the brush of fingertips there, Ai sucks in a sharp breath. He'd had no idea that he was sensitive there.

"Good?" Camus asks. 

His thumb and forefinger tweak at the nipple. It tightens abruptly, that sensation as surprising as the feel of those fingers tugging a little, working at him, even twisting it. Ai pants, nods. "V-very good," he manages. His eyelids droop as if he can't seem to keep his eyes open all the way, and he feels a flush of heat suffusing his skin. This must be arousal, a state he was unable to reach on his own. Is it because it's Camus touching him? Another hand that isn't his own, moving in unexpected ways across his skin?

Camus's hand slips away from the nipple. Ai makes a sound of unhappy protest, but then groans again when that questing hand finds his other nipple. This one has gone pebble-hard, too; every tug and tweak from Camus's long, slender fingers makes Ai shudder. How is this possible? It's already too much and Camus has barely even begun.

"You're not talking," Camus says. His normally-deep voice has dropped even lower.

"It's good," Ai says in a rush. "It's so good, how can it be so good? It never felt like this before."

Camus's eyes travel down the length of Ai's body. Ai is aware that other physical reactions are happening, but he hadn't let himself think too much of them before now. His toes flex against the piled bedspread at the end of the bed; the fine hairs on his arms have risen. His penis, which only haltingly responded to his own fumbling attempts to stimulate himself, is harder than it's ever been where it twitches against his belly. 

Camus only regards him with that cool gaze: there's no further touching, his fingers gone still on Ai's chest. Ai struggles for words. "More," he finally manages. "More. Please?"

"Very good," Camus murmurs. "See what a good boy you can be."

A shock of heat goes through him, and Ai hisses out a breath, stunned at his reaction. Before he can even begin to process his feelings about Camus's words, Camus lets his hand drift down the center of Ai's belly until his fingertips encounter the stiff erection at the juncture of his thighs. Ai's so hard now that it aches; droplets of hot liquid drip from the tip of his penis and pool on his belly.

"Camus," Ai breathes out. "Please touch me there."

"You need but ask." Camus's voice now registers in the higher tone he uses for public speaking, any time they're addressing their fans. Ai would laugh if he wasn't so wrought up with pleasure. Camus is only a servant for pretend, for show: and yet, right now, he's doing Ai's bidding.

In fact, his hand is already moving lower. A single finger traces a path down the underside of Ai's penis, which somehow stiffens even further under the delicate touch. Another wash of sensation flows through him; Ai's toes curl against the bedding. Then Camus's whole hand wraps around him, and, _this_ , Ai thinks, _this is what was missing_. 

It's strange: his analytical mind is usually so clinical and detached, capable of seeing and understanding nearly every situation in moments. He can calculate probabilities and assign subroutines without conscious thought. Right now, though, his mind is clouded and hazy. He wants to contemplate why the touch of Camus's hand on him is different than his own, wants to compare and contrast, to solve the problem and heighten his understanding.

Maybe it's because there doesn't seem to be enough breath in his lungs, or air in the room, for that matter. His pulse has accelerated, he can tell that much (he doesn't have blood, but a similar system pushes necessary fluids to his body in a rhythm not unlike an actual heartbeat), and even his vision seems foggy when he blinks at Camus. 

"How," he breathes out. "I feel so... so strange. It's so different when you touch me than when I tried doing it to myself."

Camus takes mercy on him at last, his hand beginning to slide lazily over Ai's erection. "It's all part of being turned on," he says. His free hand comes up to touch Ai's face, palm cradling his cheek; Ai turns toward that warm caress, sighing out against the thumb that traces his lower lip. "Clearly, your maker wanted to simulate the real experience, and it seems to me that they succeeded quite admirably."

That it's all arousal explains much, and yet Ai feels restless, unfulfilled. There's more to this act: that much he does know from his research. "What happens next?" he asks. Even his voice sounds odd to his ears, heavier, deeper.

Camus's smile is wicked and wide. His eyes are dark, too, Ai notices: the usual icy blue is gone nearly to black, Camus's pupils blown out by arousal. Ai darts a look down to Camus's boxers and sees a distinct shape tenting the silky fabric. Another shockwave of heat pulses through him as the awareness strikes: Camus is turned on, too, perhaps as much as Ai is.

"I want to touch you," he blurts, before Camus can even answer his question.

The smile goes deeper. "Perhaps later," Camus says. "Right now, I believe I'm showing you what happens next."

Ai's mouth opens, but the next question dies on his lips. Camus's hand suddenly speeds on him, a thumb sliding over the wet head of his penis with every stroke. Slippery liquid spreads over the shaft and makes the slide of Camus's fist hotter, slicker. Ai cries out in sudden, helpless wonder. If before it was good, now it's magnificent. His hips jerk and push as if he's lost control of his body.

"Good," Camus breathes out in a harsh hiss. "God above, but you're so beautiful like this. Let go, now, it's all right." His voice encourages, entices. "I want to see the pleasure take you, I want to see your face when it happens."

"I don't -- I don't understand," Ai gasps out. "What do you mean -- what does 'let go' mean--"

Those knowing eyes narrow, as if Camus is suddenly displeased. A quiver of worry goes through Ai, but then the hand on his penis speeds, and Camus's other hand skims over his chest to a stiff nipple. A new shock of heat hits him: Ai cries out, head pushing back into the pillow. Everything feels incredible now, as if the combination of disparate sensations creates something even more intense, burning inside him. He doesn't even know how to process it anymore; his thighs shift restlessly against the bed, hands making fists in the sheet below him. It's so much, it's just so _much_ \--

The culmination of it all strikes him in one staggering instant. The word _orgasm_ flitters in his mind even as astonishing pleasure bursts through his body, spreading from his core out through his torso, his limbs, making even his fingertips pulse. Ai can't catch his breath at first, which should technically not even be possible.

"Beautiful," Camus murmurs. He leans in close, and Ai blinks dazedly into those eyes, still dark and hungry. Camus is warm over him; Ai reaches up with a limp hand and manages to clasp at Camus's shoulder.

He understands what Camus meant now by 'let go', and as soon as he regains use of his vocal functions, he intends to tell Camus about it. But Camus stands up, slipping away from Ai, leaving him there on the bed--

"Camus," Ai says, or tries to say. The man's name comes out as a raw whisper instead.

Camus shakes his head, but his smile now is fond -- Ai might even consider it to be affectionate. "I'll be right back," he says, and then disappears into the en suite. He's only gone for a moment, though; when he returns, he's got a box of tissues and what appears to be a damp washcloth in his hands.

 _Ah_. Ai is beginning to cool off, now, and with the awareness of himself returning, his systems coming back online, he can tell that he's splattered all over his belly with what must be his functional equivalent of semen. It's nothing he's ever had to worry about before, and while he's sure the substance isn't harmful or toxic in any way, it makes sense that the fastidious Camus would want to clean up. Some of the stuff has even laced Camus's hand, he sees as Camus sits on the bed once more.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Here, allow me."

Camus shakes his head. "There's nothing to apologize for." His movements are efficient and brisk as he wipes up Ai's belly and even a few stray drops that landed on his chest. Ai blinks, but lays back and lets Camus perform his task. Before he's done, though, Ai lifts a hand and takes a drop of the stuff on a fingertip.

He notes the way Camus's eyebrow rises as Ai brings the finger to his lips and touches his tongue to it. His intent was only to analyze the substance, but the way Camus's gaze is drawn to his action is an intriguing side benefit. After a moment, Ai nods, satisfied. "Organic in nature, harmless to human systems," he reports. "Salty, slightly bitter." He makes a mental note to ask, the next time he goes in for a servicing, what specifically composes the liquid and how it's preserved.

"That's good to know," Camus murmurs. He sets the cloth aside, folded neatly in on itself, and reaches for Ai's hand. "And something I will surely keep in mind for later."

Ai finds his hand being brought to Camus's lips. Camus presses a kiss into the cup of Ai's palm, a strangely gentle gesture -- and unexpected, especially at this stage. It's not that Ai thinks Camus incapable of tenderness, but why now?

"Are you ready for more?" Camus asks. His eyes are still so dark, needy, hungry -- or so it seems to Ai's still inexperienced gaze, anyway. Ai's fingers flex, then move to cradle Camus's cheek.

"If you mean intercourse," he says, "then yes. I want that very much."

Camus nods. His hand comes up to cover Ai's briefly, and then he stands up, letting Ai's hand fall. "Turn over on your stomach," he orders.

Ai does, but not before getting a good look at Camus stripping out of his boxers. While he'd guessed that Camus was well-endowed, calculated from the distinct shape his erection made in the silky fabric, he can see now that Camus must have no anxiety in his size. (Apparently, that's a common fear in people with male genitalia, which Ai doesn't quite understand. That's a concern for later, though.)

Resting on his front, now, Ai listens to the sounds of Camus opening a drawer, retrieving some items. Lubricant and condoms, he guesses, as nothing else is technically required for copulation in this fashion. He thinks of what it will be like to have Camus inside him, and a little shiver goes through him, his legs spreading just a little wider. The soft bedsheet is heaven against his penis; he rolls his hips down to get more of the sweet sensation.

"Stop that," Camus says from somewhere behind him. Ai goes still even as he feels the mattress shift to accommodate Camus's weight. A hand nudges Ai's knees further apart. Ai can't help the hiss as he sucks in a breath; that, at least, seems to be an acceptable behavior. Ai is learning so much tonight.

Camus settles down on his knees behind him, and Ai risks a glance backward, over his shoulder. He sees Camus, a tube of something in his hand -- the lubrication, Ai presumes -- and a focused look on his face. _This is really happening_ , Ai thinks, with something like astonishment.

One large hand rests lightly on Ai's buttock, then takes a firmer grasp, squeezing. Ai never thought that his bottom would be particularly enticing, but Camus takes his time feeling the muscle, as if he can't seem to quite get enough of touching it. Like so many things, Ai will have to revise his understanding in this matter. He tries to stay unmoving, but the manipulation of his flesh in this way is delicious and sweet, heating his body up all over again. He shivers with the effort to remain still.

"Tell me what you know of intercourse," Camus says. How is it possible that the man's voice seems to have dropped even lower?

His fingers trail along the cleft between Ai's buttocks, a wave of heat washing through Ai all over again. Ai has to struggle to focus on the question asked of him. "Generally, intercourse is considered to be the insertion of a penis into an appropriate orifice. Though a substition can be made with an artificial device as the participants desire..."

His words trail off at the sensation of something cool trickling slowly between his buttocks. Camus's fingers work it into the spot Ai knows is there, though it's never been actively used by him as it would by a human. Sensation shocks him, hits him with unexpected force. He cries out at the pleasure of those heated, slick fingers on sensitive skin.

"Very good," Camus murmurs. "I'll begin preparing you, but I'll need you to talk to me through the process."

Ai nods against the pillow. "I understand. The muscles must be loosened so that you'll. So that you'll fit. Inside me." Even the words make him flush with excitement and need. 

"Breathe," Camus instructs. Ai has no idea whether it will help or not, but he tries to regulate his breaths, counting internally to keep them steady. "First one, now."

Though he's prepared for it, the intrusion is still strange, a slick finger breaching him. The lubrication is still a trifle on the cool side, though it warms quickly between the heat of Camus's finger and that of his own body. There's no easy way to describe the way it feels: an unusual pressure, painless, simply... strange. He can feel the tightness of his own simulated muscle bearing down on Camus, too, but hopes that, as with human anatomy, it will ease up gradually.

"You're not aware of anything that could cause an issue with me doing this, yes?" Camus says abruptly as he continues to ease that first digit inwards. If Ai focuses, he thinks he can feel Camus's knuckles working against the muscle, one by one.

"As far as I know," he manages, "there should be... no problem. But if there is, we would know by you doing this."

Camus makes a sound that Ai can't quite interpret, but he doesn't stop in his movement. Gradual presses work his finger deeper into Ai until Ai feels an additional pressure at his rim: the last knuckle and the surrounding fingers. He can go no deeper.

Ai resists the urge to rock his hips back, somehow managing to stay still. "It feels good," he mutters into the pillow. "Please don't stop moving."

"As you wish," Camus rumbles, and Ai feels his penis going stiff again, trapped where it is between his belly and the mattress. Why is it so intensely arousing to hear Camus speak so, and in that lethal voice? Have there been studies? Should he have read more on the subject--?

Camus's finger draws back slightly and then twists as it pushes in again, and Ai's train of thought is completely and utterly derailed as pleasure rockets through him. A cry slips from him, utterly involuntary, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his hands grasping at the pillow. "Oh--" He struggles to ask for more, but his tongue won't work correctly. "P- _please_ \--"

"Please what?" Camus asks. "I know you can tell me what you want."

"More," Ai pants. He doesn't sweat, he's not made to, but all the same he feels heat blooming all over his skin in some kind of simulation effect. "I want more of you. More inside me."

He can't see it, but he can imagine Camus's smug smile. "Soon enough. You are exquisite when you beg." His finger continues to press steadily into Ai, pulling back and driving in again, and Ai can feel himself loosening in minute, incremental amounts: each slide works him open just a little more. At this pace, though, he might lose his mind -- if such a thing were possible.

There comes a moment when Camus's finger is moving smoothly in him, though, buried all the way to the knuckle and drawn back sleekly: then it withdraws completely, and Ai hears the plastic of the lubrication bottle buckle. _At last_ , he thinks, dazedly. "You feel ready for another," Camus says. "Give me the word."

"Please," Ai says again. He's not sure if that's the word Camus meant, but he hears Camus's low chuckle and then feels the doubled pressure and figures he did something right. This time, there's more -- just _more_. It still doesn't hurt, as he'd feared it might, but it's not quite as pleasurable, either. He makes a little sound: Camus stops immediately, though he leaves the two fingers where they are.

"Too much?" he asks.

"No." Ai draws in a careful breath, tries to will himself to relax. "It just feels... intense. Please don't stop."

"All right." Camus sounds dubious, but he resumes the slow push, and Ai focuses on his breathing, on the sensation of the thousand-thread-count pillowcase under his cheek, on the pressure of Camus's knobbly knees against the inside of his thighs. Uncomfortableness gradually gives way to a warmer sensation; his penis twitches against the mattress, and pleasure begins to roll through him once more.

He's lost track of time by the time Camus's fingers are bottoming out in him and drawing back again, but at some point he realizes that his hips are shifting in time with those pushes into him. There's a vulgar term for what Camus is doing to him, but then again, this whole act is fairly vulgar, isn't it? They're not making love, not by any stretch of the imagination. This is fornication, plain and simple. 

"Your fingers feel so good," he breathes out. "Fucking me like this."

Camus goes still all of a sudden. Ai blinks, turns his head to look over his shoulder. Camus's face is a puzzle, stunned and silent. 

"What?" Ai asks. "Was it the language? I thought--"

"No." Camus shakes his head, then, and his smile goes wider, more wicked. "I simply was startled by hearing you say that. Hearing it come out of your mouth..." He sucks in a breath. Ai can see him shivering and realizes anew just how aroused Camus is, how patient he's been through all of this. 

"Then--" Ai has to swallow, because it still feels a little strange to say. "Don't stop. I want you to fuck me."

Camus makes a sound like a groan, helpless, and suddenly he comes down to Ai. His free hand braces himself on the mattress, his other arm twisted to keep his fingers inside Ai, but somehow he manages it, and his mouth is there-- _oh_ \--

 _Oh_. Camus is kissing him. It's rough and awkward, the position not exactly conducive to it; their teeth clack together and Camus's tongue pushes into his mouth. All the same, Ai moans against Camus's lips. The contact is too much and not enough, and combined with the fingers still working inside him, he feels overwhelmed with pleasure.

When Camus pulls back, a rush of cool air swirls between them and Ai can belatedly feel the heat in his own face. "Please, Camus," he gasps. "Don't make me wait any longer. I can take you. I need you."

There's no response, so Ai wriggles forward enough to free Camus's fingers from his ass. He pushes over to his back, legs shifting around Camus once more, and reaches up to tug Camus down to him for another kiss. This is only his second one, after all, but he thinks he can do better than last time. Camus makes the most delightful sounds, little mewls of hunger and need; Ai tries that thing with his tongue, pushing it into Camus's mouth, and is rewarded by the pleasure of Camus's tongue driving against his. 

Even better, Camus has lowered himself to Ai, and there's the even more incredible sensation of Camus's bare penis, hard and stiff against his own; Camus's thighs pressing down on his; Camus's hips, belly, all sliding against him in the most delightful friction. Ai wants to mindlessly rub himself against Camus, wants to feel every inch of Camus's silky skin.

"You're sure you're ready," Camus says.

Ai nods. "I don't believe we should need condoms, as we are both clean of any disease. But if you want to--"

"Perhaps to just be on the safe side." Camus doesn't look disturbed by the prospect. He pushes himself up on his knees again, this time to retrieve one of the foil squares he'd brought to the bed with him. It only takes him a moment to open it, to stretch the latex condom inside and slide it down over his own penis -- which is, in fact, perfectly proportioned to his body; Ai spends a long moment taking in the sight of Camus's hands on himself while his own erection jerks mindlessly on his belly.

A little more lubrication drizzled on Camus's erection (Ai makes a mental note later to ask if 'cock' would be a good way to think of it, as it seemed a common phrase in much of the literature he'd downloaded), and Camus is re-positioning himself. He draws Ai's legs up around his waist, fits the head of his penis to Ai's relaxed opening. His face has gone noticeably red, a flush that extends down his throat and to his chest, and his hair is loose and wild.

"Tell me when," he says, voice raw, ragged.

Ai nods. "Please," he whispers; that seems to have become his word of choice tonight.

Camus inhales and then begins to push. Ai feels the head, blunt and round and slick, a sudden fullness that momentarily overwhelms his awareness. There's so _much_ , there's nothing in his awareness but Camus filling him, breaching him, working slowly into him. And it is slow, blessedly so; Ai can't measure it right now, but it feels as if Camus is pushing in a millimeter at a time.

Ai has no experience to go by, no way to judge if this is good or bad or somewhere in the middle. He's fairly sure it's what his body needs right now, as even with the time Camus spent opening him up with his fingers, he still feels tight and unready. At the same time, he feels that he might have gone mad had they delayed any further, and he's grateful Camus didn't protest or torment him by putting this off any longer.

His arms come up around Camus's shoulders, clinging shamelessy. Camus is an anchor above him, heavy and strong, pinning him to the bed. Camus is still sinking into him, an impossibly long, slow slide, bearing deeper and deeper into his body. Ai feels trapped, and yet there's nowhere else he'd want to be as Camus inevitably pushes all the way into him.

There are no words for how it feels, so Ai doesn't bother to try finding any. He wraps his legs around Camus and just holds on to him. Above him, Camus is sweating and hot; his erection is a line of fire inside Ai. Ai presses his mouth to any part of Camus's skin that he can reach: jaw, cheek, ear, neck, shoulder. He gets mouthfuls of hair and pulls it back, but even that doesn't bother him. How could it, when they're joined so intimately, so impossibly close? Everything about this is precious and new and overwhelming.

"Tell me when you're ready," Camus grits out, mouth to Ai's throat.

"I've been ready," Ai murmurs. Camus lifts up and draws back, and Ai has a moment to think: _no, I was wrong,_ this _is what it's all for-- _and then Camus is fucking him and his mind is gone.__

____

____

Oh, he's still there, present and in the moment. But all he can think about is the heat of Camus's erection driving into him, how it's sweeter with every thrust, how he can feel the powerful flex of Camus's thighs and how every drop of sweat that falls from Camus's skin seems to sear his own. Camus's mouth is like fire on his, even if the kisses are messy and rushed between gasps for breath.

Even if Ai had an imperfect memory, were he human with a human's capacity to remember, he doesn't think he'd ever be able to forget what this is like. Camus pushes into him with a slowness that's nearly cruel. He draws back, shifts a little as he thrusts again, goes a little faster and then just holds himself deep in Ai as if relishing the connection of their bodies. Ai's thighs involuntarily squeeze at Camus's hips: _more_ , he wants to beg, but he feels mute, tongueless, unable to do anything but moan and grasp at Camus.

Another push, a different angle, and suddenly lightning bursts through Ai, a shock of electrifying pleasure that races through his body. He has a dim moment to think of technical terms, the human male's prostate gland and the curiosity he'd felt about whether he'd been equipped with some equivalent -- but clearly he has, because Camus's lips twist into a grin before he draws back to thrust again. He's got the perfect angle now, and he seems to know just how to use his erection to hit Ai right there every time.

Ai is rock hard again, his penis grinding between their bellies and slick with his own version of pre-come. Part of him wants to try touching himself again -- he knows now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, what he was missing before and how he can bring himself pleasure this time. But when he lets go of Camus's shoulders with one hand and starts to slide that hand down between them, Camus's hand suddenly catches his wrist.

"No," Camus says, and another flush of heat goes through Ai, so much that it nearly sends him into orgasm again.

Camus pins the wrist over Ai's head; his thrusts slow for a moment as he braces his weight on that elbow and then reaches behind himself to get Ai's other hand. This one comes up above Ai's head to join the first. It takes a moment of effort, but finally Camus has both of Ai's wrists in one hand, and he nods almost to himself as if satisfied. "You let me take care of you," he growls. "No touching yourself."

Ai swallows hard and then nods. His eyes are wide, but he has no doubt they've gone as dark as Camus's, hungry, desperate for the sweet release they're chasing together. He hitches his legs up a little higher, ankles locked at the small of Camus's back. His skin is slick with Camus's sweat. He might never get the scent of Camus off of him again, and he can't help but find that thought exciting.

Camus seems to like the sight of Ai like this. As he shifts to get himself into better position, he sucks in a sharp breath. "To think I nearly said no," he mutters, but before Ai can respond to that, Camus has found his rhythm once more.

This time, it's hot and hard and fast. Camus seems to have lost even the slightest bit of restraint that held him back. His free hand has come down around Ai's waist, as if helping to hold him up and giving himself a better angle -- or as if he's holding Ai in the perfect position to thrust mindlessly into him. Either way, Ai has stopped thinking about anything but Camus's steady thrusts, the stiffness filling him over and over, the fact that he doesn't want this to end.

It can't last, though. As amazing as it is, there's no way this could go on forever. He can feel himself beginning to shake with the approach of orgasm, so similar to how it felt when Camus brought him to climax with his hand and yet so much more intense: it's as a simple shower to a waterfall. Camus's eyes are hot on him, burning into him; Ai's hands twitch and his arms flex restlessly, but he can't pull away from Camus, can't do anything but let the orgasm build until it hits him--

Completely untouched, with only the friction of Camus's belly on his cock, Ai comes. For an instant, the pleasure is so intense that Ai feels as if he's gone completely offline. There's nothing but this impossible heat, the feel of Camus buried in him and the body over him the only things keeping him in place. He strains up against Camus, shuddering as it washes through him, and then, finally, begins to relax against the bed. He feels his release hot and wet, spattered over his torso, and can only blink dazed eyes up at Camus.

"Camus," he breathes in astonishment, and feels more than sees Camus's soft nod. The hand on his wrists lets go, but Ai leaves his arms where they are, too overwhelmed by his climax to even attempt to move them. Camus shifts again, just a little, and then his rhythm picks up once more. This time, both of Camus's hands hold Ai's hips firm, and Ai can do nothing but allow Camus to -- to fuck him, to take his fill of his body until orgasm overtakes him.

It doesn't take long. Ten strokes, perhaps twelve, and Camus is moaning his pleasure, throwing his head back and crying out. He shakes hard; Ai can feel that, the shudder working into him even as Camus's body heat spikes and he buries himself at last inside Ai. Were he in a more cogent state, Ai might measure the specifics of the temperature change or some of the other alterations that arousal and orgasm wrought in Camus's overall physical nature. Another time, Ai thinks. That data would strictly be for his own personal knowledge, anyway.

He's not sure he'd want others to know what Camus looks like in the throes of orgasm.

At last, Camus collapses beside Ai. He's drawn back and out of Ai's body, tugged off the condom and tossed it to a nearby trash bin, and now, panting and drained, he all but flops on his back, golden hair fanned out on the pillow. Slightly more composed, Ai rolls over to his side so that he can observe Camus in this post-coital period. Camus's chest still heaves; his pale skin is sheened in sweat that makes him glisten, and while his erection is beginning to recede, his penis is still pleasantly full, twitching occasionally against his belly.

After a moment, Ai pushes in closer and drapes an arm over Camus's torso. Camus startles for an instant, then settles again, though he turns his head to better see Ai. 

"What's this?"

"I had read that after sexual intercourse, cuddling is a common occurrence between participants," Ai begins. Before he can go further, though, Camus snorts and then brings his arm around Ai's shoulders. 

"Your idea of pillow talk needs a little work," he says.

As he gets more comfortable against Camus, Ai finds himself smiling. Perhaps he'll have more opportunities to refine his behavior.


End file.
